


The Case of the Shrunken Grump

by mrdcoolblue



Series: McCall Stilinski Paranormal Investigators [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Detective Stiles Stilinski, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Head Injury, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Private Investigators, Shrinking, Stilinski Family Feels, Werewolf Hunters, tiny derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrdcoolblue/pseuds/mrdcoolblue
Summary: He could already tell this one was going to leave a bruise. In fact, maybe there’s some extra damage, because he could feel a light pressure on his chest.He lifted his head to look, and Derek’s face glared at him. He was way too close. And the angle was weird. Was Derek super far away, or was he really—?“Dude, you’re tiny!” Scott exclaimed.“And you’re standing on my chest. Get off,” Stiles whined.. . .When hunters hit town chasing some mysterious creature, the opportunity to bag a Hale wolf is too much to pass up. But how can Derek and Stiles hope to stave them off after an unfortunate run-in in the woods leaves Derek, well, smaller than a breadbox?
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski
Series: McCall Stilinski Paranormal Investigators [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1489469
Comments: 37
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of my McCall Stilinski Paranormal Investigators series. If you haven't read the first one yet, no worries! Each story can be read as a standalone. But hey, if you feel like going back, don't let me stop ya.

“Mrs. Engles is still convinced her house is haunted.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose but kept his eyes trained on his laptop screen as he struggled through a paper for his criminal justice course. “There’s no way her house is haunted,” he answered. “Between the forty dollars of sage I burned throughout the whole thing and all the leaky pipes and broken windows you fixed, it’s probably just a squirrel in her attic or something.”

Scott and Stiles lounged in the downstairs living space of their apartment, lovingly nicknamed Miss Pi after their burgeoning supernatural private detective service, McCall Stilinski Paranormal Investigators, or MSPI for short. Downstairs was theoretically furnished to receive clients, with its seating arranged to face each other in the middle of the room, kitchenette within easy reach, and two work desks hidden behind Stiles’s murder board.

But the homework spread over the coffee table and Scott’s dirty socks piled into a corner revealed more about how often they actually expected a client to walk in the door. Which, as Stiles did a quick calculation in this head, made a grand total of zero.

Scott shuffled his printouts of the messages they’d received for MSPI. They’ve been spreading word about their private detective business through all their supernatural connections and trying to build word of mouth to do the rest. Believe it or not, the Beacon Hills pack has fought enough evil bad guys to gain somewhat of a reputation in Northern California, so every now and then, someone bothers to fill out their website’s contact form. “Well, the only other requests we’ve got are from internet trolls pretending to be werewolves.” 

Stiles hummed absentmindedly. They couldn’t all be winners, he supposed.

“Isaac also mentioned that he picked up a strange scent just outside town today,” Scott offered. “Thinks it might be hunter. Non-Argent, at least.”

Stiles perked up. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Where there’s a mysterious stranger, there’s gotta be a case.”

“I think Isaac said he’d talk to Allison, so I assume she’ll just handle it with her dad.”

Stiles shook his head. “We need to make ourselves indispensable,” he chided. “Then we become the ones people call to handle it. If we build a portfolio of successful cases, then that directly translates into future business. The resurrected Argent Arms is just one major side to that.”

“What’s the other side?”

“Convincing my dad to let us take on police cases. With all the supernatural shit that goes down here, we could have a regular case load.” Not to mention, they typically had to step in anyway to keep more people from dying. It was a full-time gig even when they weren’t getting paid. You only have time for so many side jobs if you constantly have to stop everything and save the town. “Besides, that’s totally how Psych got started.”

“Now even  _ I _ know that’s a TV show.” Scott playfully threw a sock at him.

Stiles batted it away with mock offense then went back to typing his paper. 

The silence was interrupted by the tinny blare of music playing “Hungry Like the Wolf.” Scott started rustling through the piles of papers on the coffee table before he managed to locate the phone.

He took one look at the caller ID and said, “Dude, why is Derek calling you?”

“Hn?” Stiles was already immersed in his laptop screen.

“Derek. Phone.”

It took a second to click, and then Stiles sprung from the couch, nearly slipping on several fallen papers as he reached for the phone in Scott’s hand. “Derek’s calling me? Voluntarily?” Sir broodiness himself usually had a strict policy to never call the token pack human unless Scott was unavailable. 

And Boyd, Issac, and Erica couldn’t be found. 

Or Chris or Allison. 

Malia. Deaton. 

Heck, Derek would usually call Peter before he hit his last resort. Stiles often found it rather annoying, actually, since he’d saved Derek’s life more times than the other combined. And he was way more helpful than the riddler veterinarian or the smug zombiewolf in nine out of ten of their supernatural dealings.

Stiles decided that the only way to find out what he wanted was to answer, so he tapped the accept button before the call could go to voicemail. “What’s up, sourwolf? How are you and your eyebrows doing?”

“Dammit, Stiles!” yelled Derek from the other end of the line. “Why can’t Scott answer his own damn phone?”

Well that immediately soured Stiles’s mood. “He would have . . . if you’d called it. But you’ve got me now, so what do you want?”

“I don’t need you. Put Scott on the phone.” On the other end of the line, Stiles could hear crashing and Derek panting. Was he running through the woods right now?

“Scott’s listening to your rudeness, so feel free to shout whatever secret werewolf message you’ve got.” 

Scott nodded in agreement, now seriously listening to both sides of the conversation.

“Scott, I found the hunters in—shit!—in the Preserve. They spotted me.”

Scott immediately sprang into action, pulling his own phone from the coffee table. “I’ll call Argent to call them off. And I’m coming to back you up. Where are you?”

“Not far from the ravine. East from the old house. If you come—what the? Hey!”

The call dropped.

Stiles immediately tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. 

Stiles and Scott stared at each other for a split second before they both ran for the door. Stiles grabbed his keys and shoved his wallet into his jeans while Scott dialed Chris. 

With the practiced ease of responding to many an emergency, they hopped into Stiles’s Jeep and peeled out of the parking lot.

As Stiles drove straight for the Preserve, Scott threw his phone into his pocket with an agitated sound. 

“Hey, buddy, I hope that frustrated moan means you successfully got Chris and he’s already solved the problem with his hunter pals.”

“No answer,” Scott replied. “If you get me to the Hale house, I can probably track Derek from there.”

“Already on it.” Stiles gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles went white. If he didn’t have a solid hold, he knew his hands would be shaking right now, and he needed all his concentration to navigate the high-speed turns with his old girl. “We’ll get there.”

Scott looked at him sideways. “You don’t think . . .”

“We’ll get there in time,” Stiles interrupted, “because we have to.”

* * *

“You still got his scent?”

Scott closed his eyes in concentration and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Yeah, he came through here this morning. We’re almost near the ravine where he called us. It’s just that . . .”

Stiles tightened his grip on his trusty metal bat. “It’s just what?”

Scott sniffed the air again. Then sneezed. “There’s some other scent. I don’t know it.”

“The hunters?”

“No. Derek lost them a while back. This is something tangy, wild maybe? I don’t think it’s human.” He sneezed again.

Well that wasn’t very reassuring. Stiles kept running the phone call through his mind. Derek had hung up so suddenly that something must have happened. Something had surprised him. 

But he’d already lost the hunters a while back. Derek was used to evading humans on the prowl for werewolves, and he’d lived most of his life in Beacon Hills. He knew these woods.

What was this mysterious creature that had gotten the best of a Hale in his own territory? 

Stiles and Scott walked on, discussing what might have gotten the jump on Derek in between Scott’s steadily increasing sneezes. Scott seemed to have the optimistic hope that maybe it was something relatively harmless, like a giant weredeer. Or Cora snuck back into town to play a prank on him. Or his phone had one of those batteries that spontaneously catches on fire, no supernatural explanation necessary.

Stiles snorted at each unlikely scenario, but it was Derek’s hostility that he obsessed over. Sure, it wasn’t exactly unusual for Derek to be a grump. The guy had a hard life, and nowadays Stiles was pretty sure that his face was permanently stuck with a perpetual frown.

“All I’m saying is, maybe if Derek dropped his whole angry and broody schtick every now and then, he wouldn’t always find himself alone when he gets into life-threatening situations.”

Scott peered at him through watering eyes. “That’s a little harsh.” He stifled another sneeze.

“Yeah, well, he’s also a jerk.” Stiles was batting branches out of his way. “I mean, today alone, what was with that call earlier?”

“The one where he was running for his life?”

“The one where he was incredibly rude to me. As if I, even with my pale skin and fragile bones, haven’t saved his life dozens of times.”

Stiles continued trudging through the bushes, completely unmindful of where he was stepping as he got more worked up. His shirt kept snagging on branches, but he would just angrily tug himself free and keep going.

“Maybe one of these days I won’t be there to answer the phone. And then what will he—” Stiles let out a yell as his ankle was suddenly jerked to the side and he lost his balance. Scott wasn’t fast enough to prevent him from landing on his back hard.

The air was knocked from his lungs on impact, and he was forced to lie in the dirt wheezing as he got his breath back. He could already tell this one was going to leave a bruise. In fact, maybe there’s some extra damage, because he could feel a light pressure on his chest.

He lifted his head to look, and Derek’s face glared at him. He was way too close. And the angle was weird. Was it just him? Was Derek super far away, or was he really—?

“Dude, you’re tiny!” Scott exclaimed.

“And you’re standing on my chest. Get off,” Stiles whined.

He heard Derek huff angrily, but he waited until he felt the pressure leave his chest before it was safe enough to roll over and push himself into a seated position. His clothes were now officially dirty, so he might as well just sit on the forest floor.

Scott wasn’t kidding. Derek was  _ smol _ . He was what, no more than eight inches tall? He still looked his usual frowny, muscular self, but while at about six feet that was usually incredibly intimidating, scaled down, it was straight up ridiculous. 

And Stiles couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Derek growled, actually growled, as he flashed his eyes. Stiles only laughed harder, clutching his side and wiping honest-to-god tears out of his eyes.

“I think you’re going to have to restrategize your intimidation techniques, little guy.”

Then Derek let out a frustrated huff. The look on his face became more upset than angry, and dare Stiles say it, but he now looked maybe a little lost. Stiles pulled himself together again and calmed down.

“How did this happen?” Scott asked.

Derek sighed again and calmly stated, “I was running the boundary of the Preserve when I caught an unfamiliar scent. I already knew the hunters were sniffing the area, but since Chris obviously wasn’t doing his job, I decided to scout them out to see why they’re in town.”

“Yeah, Isaac mentioned them the other day,” Scott said.

“And did you find out what they want?” Stiles asked. He was already mentally calculating exactly what his dad would need to know as Sheriff and the odds that they could settle this before anyone, especially the pack or police, got shot. And he was mentally kicking Chris for not handling these hunters before they became a problem.

“They must have known there’s a pack occupying this territory,” Derek continued, “because I found traps they had set. They were on their guard, too, because they found me first.”

Both Scott and Stiles looked up sharply, Scott’s face tinged with concern while Stiles could feel his eyebrows pull together with a scowl.

“I ran, and they chased me through the woods for a while. When it looked like I had put enough distance between us, I called you.”

“We remember that part,” Stiles interrupted.

“But I was still running, still healing,” Derek ground out, and Stiles felt a little mollified. “When I stumbled on some procession, I was knocked out, and when I woke . . .” He gestured emphatically to his body.

“So now we know everything,” Scott summed up.

Stiles scoffed. “We don’t know anything.” He turned accusingly to Derek. “You left out the most important details. You just woke up? How were you shrunk? You stumbled on a procession? Of what?”

Derek’s nostrils flared. “I’m not sure. They were small, but there were a lot of them.”

“Small like you? Were they humanoid or creatures? We need more information, and you’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Stiles,” Scott started, but he was interrupted with another sneeze.

“That’s it.” Derek’s eyes widened. “Whatever they did caused my nose to go crazy. I started sneezing just like that.”

“And that means . . . ?”

“My mother used to tell us stories. About creatures that lurk in the deepest parts of the forest. How the scent of wild magic would affect a werewolf’s nose. The importance of never angering a fae creature.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stiles interrupted. “You’re saying that fairies are real? Like with little wings and everything? What else is real, the Easter bunny?”

“Don’t call them fairies if you want to keep your skin,” Derek intoned. “Regardless of their size, they actually have powerful magic, are incredibly violent, and easily offended. Growing up, we typically didn’t have to worry about them because they rarely traveled through our territory. But my aunts and uncles would tell us kids some pretty horrific stories about changelings replacing pups or distant cousins who said the wrong thing to the fae and were turned inside out.”

Stiles gulped. “Like literally . . . their insides on the . . .” He gestured weakly.

“So if that’s true, I guess getting shrunk for interrupting their procession is getting off relatively easy,” Scott said. Leave it to him to find the bright side in all this.

“So the hunters in town have officially dropped in our list of priorities right now,” Stiles said. “We have to work on getting you back to normal.”

Scott crinkled his nose. “How do we even do that?”

“You said they have wild magic, right?” At Derek’s nod, Stiles stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Then we need to gather information. See if there’s a reference to fae in the bestiary. Maybe there’s a counterspell or something I can use to undo it.”

Derek hummed thoughtfully. “There are some books in my family’s vault that might help, but what if it requires the same type of magic to reverse it?”

“Then we ask the fae to undo the curse,” Scott replied. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding anyway.”

Derek didn’t look too sure. “That might work.”

Stiles clapped his hands together. “So we’ve got two viable plans. Shall we split up? I volunteer to look for the fae. I’ve always wanted to see what creatures exist. And I bet I can talk ‘em around.”

Derek pulled a face.

“What? You don’t have faith in my gift of gab? I’ll have you know I talk real good.”

Derek replied over Scott’s answering snort, “Maybe Scott should search for the fae. He might be a little more diplomatic.”

“And, you know, I have the nose.”

“Yes, just follow the wafting allergens. They’ll hear your sneezes for miles,” Stiles deadpanned. “Fine. I’ll take Derek to find the Hale family books, and we’ll manage the study session.”

“Keep me updated on what you find,” Scott said.

“And you look out for those hunters,” Derek replied. “They’re not messing around.”

Scott nodded seriously and then went jogging into the woods by himself. 

Now that they were by themselves, Stiles stared awkwardly down at Derek. “So, uh, how do we do this? Do I carry you, or . . . ?”

“Try it and you die,” Derek growled. 

“Chill out, dude. My Jeep’s parked all the way by the old house, so are you just going to walk a couple inches at a time?”

Derek sighed and then reached out his arms. “Fine. But if you put me anywhere near your pocket, I  _ will _ bite you. And don’t you dare make any Ken doll jokes.”

“Yeah, yeah, Thumbelina,” Stiles replied as he stooped down beside Derek. He managed to help Derek scramble up his sleeve and onto his shoulder with only a minimal amount of clawing. “Believe me, there’s no dignified way to do this for either of us.”

Derek’s answering growl at least seemed like he agreed as Stiles began traipsing back through the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second case is here! I'm posting chapters every third day, so look out for the next installment coming soon. Thanks for reading, guys!


	2. Chapter 2

Luckily it happened to be a Saturday afternoon, because Beacon Hills High was deserted enough for Stiles and Derek to secretly sneak into the Hale vault. Just as soon as the school sign slid from its place to the sound of grinding concrete, Stiles ducked inside, mindful of tiny Derek clinging to the side of his flannel collar.

“I can’t believe the vault opened even with your claws, well, not up to their usual standard.”

Derek stared at his own hands, now the size of pennies, as he flexed his fingers. “I wasn’t even sure it would work, but I guess the magic holds up.”

They entered the main chamber, surrounded by dusty shelves and cabinets filled with various bric a brac from generations of Hale packrats. It was worse than Stiles’s great aunt’s attic. Looking at a shelf lined with mysterious jars of labelless plant matter, he couldn’t tell whether some of these had the West Coast’s only supply of an obscure tea that could secretly cure some unknown magical disease, or if something simply crawled in there, died, and started to decompose.

One jar was so dusty he couldn’t make out the substance inside, and as he reached one hand out to grab it, a sharp jab in the soft shell of his ear had him flinching backwards.

“Ow, fuck. Watch the claws. I so could not pull off a piercing there.”

“Then watch your hands,” Derek hissed in his ear. “This is all valuable stuff, and some of it is dangerous. I don’t need you breaking something just because you can’t keep your fingers to yourself.”

Stiles huffed. “I’m not some child who can’t help himself. All you gotta do is say let’s focus.”

“Stiles,” Derek forced through clenched teeth, “stop being a child, and let’s focus.”

With Derek perched on his shoulder, Stiles couldn’t effectively shoot him a glare, so he settled for rolling his eyes as he strolled toward a dusty shelf of haphazardly stacked books. Some of them had writing on the spines, and some seemed to be handbound antiques. “So what are we looking for?” he asked.

Once he leaned in close enough to squint at a couple labels, Derek took the opportunity to leap from his shoulder straight onto a shelf. He didn’t even have to duck his head to keep from hitting the shelf above. Inching along the spines, Derek started shoving books aside to see some of the covers better.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Derek replied. “A hunter’s bestiary would tell you what you’re looking for and how to kill it.”

“But your family wasn’t hunters; it was werewolves,” Stiles said, starting to idly thumb through volumes on a different shelf. “And we’re more interested in how to contact it and negotiate.”

“Or reverse its magic. Exactly,” Derek said. “I once had a Cousin Tammy. She was like ninety when I was seven, and I’m not even sure we were really related, but she was obsessed with fae creatures. She would try to find out all she could about them: their customs, what they liked, how different courts worked. And she journaled about everything. If we are going to find anything about the fae roaming the Preserve right now, Tammy’s journal is the most likely source.”

Stiles immediately switched tactics to peruse the handwritten books on his shelf. “Obsessive Cousin Tammy, huh? In my family, it’s more like kooky Great Aunt Lena. Legit had a collection of Santa statues stashed in her attic over the years.”

“Santas?” Derek inquired, still dragging around books with his whole body to flip through them.

“Right? Who does that? My dad went to help her clean her house when she had to move to a home, and all those Santas lined up to be boxed gave child me nightmares for weeks. Glassy eyes, staring at nothing, waiting to be thrown out with the trash.” Even several years later, he could picture them perfectly. “Yet all of their faces were frozen with jolly smiles, as if they can’t fathom the inevitability of their own demise.” Stiles shivered. “No thank you.”

Derek hummed absentmindedly.

Stiles looked over to where Derek still toiled, dragging books one at a time across the shelf so he could painstakingly pull up each cover and let it fall open because his arms couldn’t reach that far. The whole effort slowed him down, forced him to take his time and focus on what he was looking for. Stiles liked puzzle-solving Derek much better than snapping, angry Derek. Even though he stood on a shelf, no taller than most of the books he was hauling around, Derek had taken on a much softer expression. 

Stiles was always so worried that Derek spent most of his brain power in a constant state of pain and self-flagellation, and most of the time it showed, because he would more often lash out at the people around him. But here, with a simple but important task to do, his mind was given an opportunity to focus. He wasn’t nearly as vile and angry as he always pretended to be, Mr. Anger-is-my-anchor. He could stand in this dusty space, surrounded by his family’s things—reminders everywhere that they once occupied this space—and he was having a halfway decent conversation with Stiles, the token human.

Then a loud sneeze from Derek interrupted Stiles’s thoughts, and he magnanimously suppressed the urge to call him adorable and offer to get a tissue. Sometimes Stiles was a real saint.

“I think I found it,” Derek called, rubbing a finger across the underside of his nose. Again, so not completely adorable.

Stiles immediately crossed to that shelf and pulled out the offending book. He half held his breath, expecting a surge of dust to fly right at his face, but the book was relatively dust free, and he suddenly remembered werewolves’ sniffly reaction to anything coated in wild magic.

He opened it up to the first page and, using the flashlight in his phone, could clearly see this was Cousin Tammy’s journal on fae.

_ Tamara P____ _

_ Migratory Fae Creatures Through the Pacific Northwest and Canada _

“This is it,” Stiles confirmed. “Let’s take it up to the surface so we can read it in the daylight.” He offered Derek the crook of his elbow, and the tiny werewolf climbed up his sleeve with minimal complaint. Then Stiles took the stairs two at a time out of the dark Hale vault and into the afternoon sun.

In the school parking lot, he propped the journal open on the hood of his Jeep and started flipping through pages while Derek marched across the Jeep’s hood impatiently.

“What does it say?” he growled.

“So not helping,” Stiles tutted. His eyes danced across whole pages at a time, barely skimming words until he could pick out something that might be useful. “This is a journal, not an encyclopedia. And I can’t exactly control-F key phrases. Of course, that’s precisely why it’s useful to digitize important historical texts, especially to archive them for later use.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, massaging his temples.

“You know, there are a lot of university programs and nonprofits doing good work, converting public domain texts into electronic files. It’s really a shame that they don’t get nearly the amount of credit they deserve, let alone funding.”

“Stiles!” Derek said much louder, letting his eyes shine bright werewolf blue.

Stiles shut his mouth with an audible click. So they were back to angry, yelly Derek now, the one who thought he could get his way by demonstrating his caveman charm through intimidation and werewolf strength.

“My point is,  _ tiny _ Derek,” he monotonized, pointedly ignoring Derek’s angry grimace, “maybe you should have a  _ little _ patience while I decipher this handwritten chicken scratch. Or are you going to continue being so  _ small _ minded? I know you usually have a  _ short _ fuse, but even this is  _ beneath _ you.” Yes, he may have been laying it a little thick on the short jokes, but Stiles is mature enough to know that he gets really petty and sarcastic and, well, immature when he’s annoyed.

Derek stared at him for a moment, breathing audibly through his nose. After a beat, he looked off to the side and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be impatient. I’m just—I hate being so—”

“Helpless?” Stiles’s eyebrows rose.

Derek grunted in agreement. “I’ve always been able to rely on my powers. But now I feel off. I can’t hear as far or smell as strongly. My strength is only a fraction of what it usually is. Like this,” he gestured to his eight-inch body, “I can’t do anything. I’m weak, more useless than a human.”

Stiles flinched. “And doesn’t that just about suck,” he deadpanned.

* * *

It took way too long skimming through the journal before they found anything, and even then it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as they hoped. If Stiles could go back in time and give Cousin Tammy advice, it would be to, for the love of god, learn to edit, woman.

Okay, maybe if Stiles did suddenly have time traveling powers to warn the Hale family of one thing, it would definitely be about the fire that would destroy their house and kill 90 percent of their family. But still. If a wish fulfillment had strict rules and such magical powers had to be mysteriously related to Cousin Tammy and her journal, Stiles would definitely hook her up with some organizational techniques he’d found on bullet journal blogs.

Tammy’s journal, in addition to being completely handwritten and therefore incredibly difficult to read with her angled, loopy penmanship, was also a seemingly random collection of observations, thoughts, and musings jumbled together in chronological order with no system for highlighting what was important or what was mere flight of fancy. She could have five pages where she’s interviewing someone who’d supposedly encountered a fae queen near Vancouver, and then she might spend twenty pages rhapsodizing about a dream she’d had where everything in Disney Channel’s  _ Luck of the Irish _ was revealed to be based on a true story. 

The only useful entries involved her cataloging facts and rumors she’d heard about fae in North America. According to Cousin Tammy, it all dramatically varied on what type of fae you were dealing with whether you could reverse their spells yourself or had to ask them to undo it. And even in California and Oregon alone, there were supposedly dozens of different types that could be roaming the woods. 

Stiles tried to press Derek about any details that could reveal which type of fae had caused him to shrink, but the surly werewolf insisted that he didn’t get a good enough look. Or sniff. Or whatever supernatural senses Derek was supposed to have.

Instead, he just sat on the hood of Stiles’s Jeep, angrily staring off into the distance while Stiles flipped through page after page.

“Well it could be pixies, which means the magic should wear off in a few days and you’ll be fine,” Stiles said as he ran a finger down one of the journal pages.

“A few days? I don’t have a few days to just hang out like this,” Derek growled.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “That was actually one of the best-case scenarios. It could also have something to do with the Erlking. And if that’s the case, your soul is now cursed until you waste away to nothing and basically become fairy dust for another werewolf to sneeze over.”

Derek huffed in answer.

“Maybe Scott’s found something we can use.” Stiles pulled out his cell phone.

As soon as the call clicked, Scott’s voice came down the line. “Stiles, you guys find anything?”

“We were hoping you might’ve, Scotty. All we’ve got is Cousin Tammy’s journal—”

“Who?”

“—but we really need to know what exactly we’re dealing with.” 

“So far I’ve been following my nose,” Scott was interrupted with a soft sneeze, “and I might be on some trail, but it’s really so haphazard, I’m not sure I’m going the right direction. And I still smell the hunters everywhere.”

“Be careful, buddy. Whether it’s the fae or the hunters, don’t let anyone sneak up on you. We still don’t know what either of them want.” 

Derek grunted in agreement.

“Same goes for you, man. What are you going to do now?”

“There’s a kind of catch-all spell in here that might work as a kind of summoning spell. It requires some weird ingredients, but it should allow us to talk with the fae without offending them further.”

“And Derek will be okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Stiles assured him. “He’s manly and tough as nails. A real werewolf’s werewolf.”

Derek rolled his eyes while Scott released a confused sound.

“Anyway, Scotty, keep us updated on your search, and we’ll let you know what we find.”

“Stay safe,” Scott replied, and they both hung up.

“Well,” Stiles started, clapping his hands together, “let’s get this magical scavenger hunt underway.”

Derek struggled to close the journal right before Stiles easily slipped the book off the top of his car and tucked it under an arm. “And you’re sure this will work?” Derek asked.

“Weren’t you listening? I have no idea.” Stiles offered his other arm for Derek to climb on and, once he was settled, walked them over to the driver’s side and climbed in. “Doesn’t hurt to try, though. Unless, you know, it goes horribly wrong.”

Derek let out a loud, put-upon sigh. 

Stiles started the car then glanced at Derek clinging to his shoulder through the rearview mirror. 

“First stop, Sheriff’s station.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. And thanks for reading! The next chapter will be posted in three days. I hope you enjoyed this so far.


	3. Chapter 3

“Now be cool and stay hidden,” Stiles whispered, seemingly to himself. He crossed the parking lot toward the front entrance to the Sheriff’s station, trying to act casual but not so casual that all the cops on shift might think he looks suspicious. He’s had a lifetime of tomfoolery and practical jokes to know that he could only get away with it maybe 50 percent of the time because, and to quote his dad, he “just had that look” on his face.

His dad was their boss, after all. And he taught them everything he knew, namely that Stiles was often trying to get away with something. He’s pretty sure that even the softest officers on his dad’s force haven’t fallen for his most angelic look since he maybe eight or nine.

“I’m not a fan of this setup,” Derek grumbled in his ear.

“Stop being such a grump,” Stiles shot back. It was Derek’s fault that he had to pull on the spare hoodie he kept in his trunk despite the fact that it totally clashed with today’s flannel. The tiny werewolf refused to stay in the car, and he shot down Stiles’s suggestion to hide in one of his pockets with a few choice expletives.

So Derek was forced to huddle in the gap behind Stiles’s hood, which gave him access to whisper in Stiles’s ear as he  _ oh so casually _ entered the station, trying to ignore Derek’s whispery breaths tickling his ear canal.

That’s totally not completely distracting when Stiles needs to school his expression and focus on finding what they came for so they can both get the hell out of there.

The spell’s first important ingredient was an object made of iron. While Stiles would have happily dug out his dad’s old cast iron pan and sacrificed that to the greater good—seriously, there was a reason it was never used, and it had everything to do with the fact that usually Stiles did all the cooking, and that hellishly dense thing might have snapped one of his arms if he so much as flipped an omelet. 

But, as he was flipping through Cousin Tammy’s journal, it turns out an object used in a spell that touched on fae magic had to be more than its material. Some of her phrasing reminded Stiles of a couple of Deaton’s frustratingly vague lectures on the supernatural. An object’s properties are also influenced by its place in the world, its purpose, and the energies of the people and creatures it interacts with. And even the slimmest difference can make or break a spell—or turn it into a total disaster.

Now, Stiles wasn’t exactly a trained emissary. Or a studied Druid. Or even a small-town veterinarian, he thought with a pursed face. Most of the little magic he did know was self-taught, pulled from Deaton’s books. It was the stuff any human with sufficient will and a ready supply of Mountain Ash could do with the right level of stubbornness. 

But, based on a couple different schools of magical theory, some knowledge of the applications of symbology to carefully placed mumbo jumbo, and a few hastily skimmed passages from Cousin Tammy’s journal, he was fairly confident he could cobble together something that may not perfectly fit, but it just might do the trick. Pun intended.

And that’s what brought him and Derek to the Sheriff’s station. Right in the middle of the afternoon shift, where it looked like very single deputy in the department was hanging out until the next inevitable “mountain lion” attack. Stiles sidled past some guys locked in a quiet argument with the officer manning the front desk. He flashed Deputy Rodrigez a cheeky salute, but she was preoccupied with the guys in black leather who looked more like they were in the midst of a mid-life crisis than a law-breaking gang.

Man, Derek better not blow their cover, because Stiles was sure if his dad found out what they were doing, he would have an aneurysm.  _ Oh, don’t mind me, Dad. I’m just here to steal police property so I can magic this sourwolf back to wearing big boy pants. _

“Stiles, what a surprise.”

Stiles jerked to such a sudden stop he nearly lost his balance right there in the middle of the station. He could feel Derek grab onto a few loose hairs to steady himself, and,  _ ow _ , those were still attached, dude.

“Heeey, Daddio. What’s kicking?” Then he immediately smacked himself in the forehead. Real smooth.

His dad stood there in his Sheriff’s uniform, one eyebrow quirked in suspicion. “Everything okay, son? Did you need to see me for some reason?”

Derek leaned closer to Stiles’s ear and whispered, “Keep it light and brief, and for the love of all that is holy, you have to stay calm.”

Good advice, Derek, but not exactly specific. 

“I’m here to make sure you’re eating healthy. Cops and donuts is a cliche for a reason, you know.”

Judging by his dad’s furrowed brow, that was so not the right track, so he immediately switched to another.

“Do I need a reason to visit my old man at work?”

His dad did not seem even remotely appeased. “Usually your reasons involve trying to snoop on a police case that might relate to—” he paused and surreptitiously glanced around the station then looked almost embarrassed, “—a furry little problem.”

Stiles bit back a snort, because he could see exactly where he got his talent for code phrases and spycraft. But wait a minute, “Are you saying there is a police case the pack should know about?” He arched an eyebrow.

But his dad shot right back, “Is there something  _ I _ should know about instead?” Man, he definitely had perp-interrogation voice right now, and it was unnerving. 

Something he should know? Like a band of unknown hunters leaving traps and attacking werewolves? Or a group of as-yet-unidentified fae creatures roaming amok in the Preserve? Or that the most veteran werewolf in the area is out of the commission on account of his tiny shrunken state?

“Nope, not a thing to worry about,” Stiles blurted out in a slightly squeaky voice. He felt Derek sigh from behind him, and he cast about for something, anything, that would call off his dad long enough to get what they came for and get out.

“Give him something quick,” Derek hissed.

“In fact,” Stiles continued, “we—I mean, I—didn’t come here on police business or for you. Jeez, big head much there, Sheriff?” Then he spotted something that could help him, hand propping up their chin as they presumably were filling out a report.

“I came here to talk to Parrish. About pack stuff. Scott was going to do some training drills and wanted to see if he wanted to come. To train. Casually.” Stiles trailed off under his father’s scrutiny.

Derek was softly growling at his idiocy, and those kitten-sized claws on his neck were starting to hurt.

Sure, he was reaching, because most of the time Parrish was in some pretty heavy denial about his supernatural status. He never purposefully hung out with the pack; although, Stiles usually theorized it had more to do with the fact that about 80 percent of the pack were technically teenagers still. Whatever, most of them were eighteen-plus and also technically adults.

Luckily, the soft spot the Sheriff had for Deputy Parrish allowed him to buy Stiles’s story for now. “Okay,” he allowed, “I’ll just call him over and—”

“Yowch!” Stiles yelped, and his hand shot to the back of his neck where Derek had not-so-lightly clawed him. At his dad’s—and now probably every person in the station’s—befuddled expressions, he quickly stumbled through a, “There’s actually no need to do that. I can clearly see that Parrish is working and way too busy.”

Back in the corner, Parrish let out a bored yawn.

“I’ll ask him to train with the pack some other time.”

“And how are you going to get the thing?” Derek hissed in his ear. 

“But before I leave,” Stiles continued out loud to his dad, “I had like a huge milkshake earlier, so I think I’ll use the facilities.” Then he slid past his dad and into the bathroom. 

“Smooth moves, Stilinski,” Derek deadpanned once they were safely alone. “How on earth did you ever get away with anything?”

“Usually with good planning,” Stiles shot back, getting a little tired of the disparaging remarks. “Need access to the evidence room? I had to clone the keycard during the department holiday party. Need to track the location of Scott’s phone? I had to know his username and password beforehand. Believe it or not, 90 percent of the stunts I pull require a lot of prep. I’m not actually very good on my feet.”

“Oh, I can believe it. Now, is the coast clear?”

Stiles peered out the door then pushed back into the station. “Hush, you,” he said as he patted at Derek’s location at the back of his head. Derek’s growl of annoyance was almost worth the sharp pinpricks he got in return.

Stiles ducked into his dad’s now empty office and closed the blinds to hide their misdeeds.

He went over to a set of shelves behind the desk. “Okay, I believe it should be right around . . . here.” He pulled out an old dust-covered box and checked its contents. Derek pulled himself just far enough out of his hood to peer inside.

“That’s it?” Derek said. “We snuck in here to grab a dirty old nail?”

Stiles shut the box with a snap. “It’s the pin of an old hinge, it’s incredibly old, and it’s pure iron.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s supposed to mean that it’ll make the spell more potent, help us summon the fae, and get you back into basketball-playing shape. Respect the hinge pin, and get back into your hiding spot.”

Stiles managed to exit the Sheriff’s office without any deputies stopping him. He strutted past the working deputies, offered another cheeky salute to the guys waiting in the lobby, and walked out of the station home free.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Derek said. Stiles was driving down an empty stretch of road while Derek was perched on their small pile of ingredients in the front passenger seat. “You needed a very specific antique iron hinge, but the rest of these all-important ingredients can be junk you just found?”

Stiles glanced in his rearview mirror and huffed. “That’s not what I said. Ingredient one,” he held up one finger, “is iron. Considering we’re trying to track down the fae you encountered—trap their whereabouts, if you will—and the fact that Cousin Tammy said that iron is one of the few materials that will best affect fae of pretty much all types, this is an important part of the spell. I wanted to give it more kick by using an iron object with inherent meaning to it.”

Derek glanced at the old box dubiously.

“That hinge was part of the first jail built in Beacon Hills, back when this town was an old gold panning destination on the edge of the frontier. A true spooky Western setting. That hinge helped lock up criminals for over a century, and now it’ll help lock down a way to cure you.”

“That makes a strange sort of sense,” Derek admitted, “but the next thing we needed required a five-minute stop at the hardware store.”

“Item two,” Stiles interrupted loudly, holding up a second finger, “is lots of bone meal. Wild magic requires a lot of organic matter, but unlike Druid magic, which uses mostly plants and herbs, it usually involves animal remains. Now we could go hog wild and grind up a ton of roadkill or make it more meaningful and find a farm animal to kill ourselves. But that would be time consuming and gross, and if I fainted when Scott got his tattoo, what makes you think I could kill a defenseless animal? This fertilizer has the same basic pieces and parts we need without the mess, and the old hinge pin should do the rest.”

“And the charcoal stick?”

Stiles had stuck the pencil he’d found in the back of his trunk into his shirt pocket. “Will come in handy to draw runes and circles.” Stiles adjusted the mirror and kept driving. “And we’ll need some of your blood for it to work, but you’ve already got that covered.”

Derek’s trademark eyebrows shot up. “What, you got a sacrificial dagger I have to slice my hand open with?”

“I got a couple safety pins in my jacket if you want something more size appropriate.” Stiles shot him a feral grin. 

Derek shook his head. “What I don’t understand is why you tried so hard to hide this from the Sheriff.”

Stiles settled his gaze straight ahead as he asked, “You really wanted to explain all this do my dad?”

“No, it would be humiliating. But,” Derek clarified, “he is the Sheriff, and he knows about the supernatural, not to mention is super protective of you and by extension the pack. So he is at the very least a good ally to have.” 

“I know that,” Stiles shot back. He wasn’t really in the mood to talk about this.

But Derek just pushed through. “And considering how much you complain about him keeping supernatural details from you . . .”

“Derek, I—” 

“I just thought you’d want to keep communication channels open about this kind of thing.” 

Stiles took a deep breath through his nose. “It’s not as simple as that. Sure, if my dad heard there were hunters in town that were on the attack, he would immediately jump into action. Because that is who he is.”

Stiles took another breath. “But if he’s too busy looking after me, his force, and the whole town, then who’s there to look after him?”

“The pack would of course—”

“The pack can barely take care of ourselves,” Stiles interrupted, louder than he meant to, “and two-thirds of us are superpowered werewolves. I remember all too clearly what happened with Gerard. And I love Scott, but he was too turned around to mount any rescues then.” He took a deep breath. He’s not angry at Scott. He really isn’t. But emotions still run high when he thinks back to the terror he’d felt back in sophomore year.

“If that crazy old man had no trouble hurting a sixteen-year-old fragile human kid, what do you think people like him would do to an authority figure who could potentially be a threat?” His voice broke off and he paused, eyes on the road, breathing heavily.

“I’m not willing to risk that, not with the only surviving parent I have.”

The car fell into an uncomfortable silence. Stiles gripped the wheel hard, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

It took several long seconds before Derek spoke up again. “And what’s the final thing we need?” Stiles couldn’t be sure, but it almost sounded like his voice wavered a little.

“Gold,” Stiles replied in monotone, trying to follow Derek’s lead and calm down with the change in topic. “And it’s gotta be pure.”

“Where are we going to find pure gold?”

Stiles thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some lying around that old family vault of yours? Or were your family strictly invested in bonds?”

Derek shook his head.

“Then I only know of one place we can legally and cheaply get our hands on a bit of pure gold,” Stiles said. He tapped the mirror once and the steering wheel twice.

Derek frowned. “Why do you keep messing with the mirror?”

Stiles gulped. “Because I think we might be followed.”

Derek’s eyes flashed with little pinpricks of bright blue. “Are you sure?”

“I thought it might have been a coincidence until we left the hardware store, but there they are, spotted three times in one day. Ominous black SUV, a real hunter staple.”

“Stiles, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Because we walked right past them at the station and you didn’t raise any red flags.” They were arguing with Deputy Rodrigez, after all. Stiles himself should have spotted them as a threat sooner, if he wasn’t so used to Chris Argent being the only middle-aged white guy to make the leather look actually work.

A guilty look crossed Derek’s face. “I told you some of my senses haven’t been as strong in this form.” He trailed off into a brief silence. “What do we do?”

Stiles cursed silently. They must have spotted Derek with him at the station, figured the wolf was in a vulnerable state—and with a tiny stature and duller senses, what else could he be—and decided to catch up with them and finish the chase scene from earlier today. They probably haven’t made their move yet only because so far Stiles had kept the Jeep in public places. And there was no way they’d hang back for long.

Man, Stiles could really kick Chris Argent’s ass. He was supposed to keep the hunters out before they even got this far.

“We stick to the plan,” Stiles said, gripping the steering wheel. And hope they don’t get confident and move in. Right now, their best hope is to finish the spell or find the fae, then get Derek back to fighting shape, and hopefully later they’ll have time to regroup with Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We're over halfway through now. Chapter 4 will be posted in three days.


	4. Chapter 4

“You have got to be kidding,” Derek said when Stiles parked at their destination.

“Pure gold cheaply and legally,” Stiles insisted as he offered Derek his arm to climb aboard. “Even if I was willing to sacrifice my mom’s wedding ring, jewelry is often alloyed with other metals to keep it strong. And since neither of us happens to carry a gold bar in our pocket like we’re Indiana Jones villains, I don’t exactly have the time to plan and execute a bank heist.”

“So we get it from Prospector Bill’s Wild West Shoppe? This place is a tourist trap.”

“This place is a cultural icon.”

They were parked in front of an old storefront isolated on a stretch of highway just outside Beacon Hills. Over a hundred years ago, Beacon County had been one of those settlements that got caught up in the Gold Rush craze. Stiles had never found any record of significant levels of gold panned from the river or dug out of the mines, but enough people had been into it that little museums and gift shops were built in the ‘70s to commemorate that time period. Stiles had fond memories of when his parents used to take him to Prospector Bill’s when he was a little kid.

Although, nowadays the storefront didn’t look like it had aged well in the last ten-plus years. Even if you ignored the peeling paint and the signs that were at least decades out of date, it looked like the surrounding woods were making a valiant effort to reclaim the old building with weeds breaking up the sidewalk and parking lot, tree branches starting to blend in with the roof, and what he assumed was a nest of raccoons in the mailbox. And the place was deserted; no happy families visiting for a hokey, rose-tinted view of history on this Saturday afternoon. 

If it weren’t for the open sign steadily blinking in the window, Stiles would have thought it was abandoned.

With Derek perched in his hoodie just out of sight, Stiles pushed open the front door to the sound of a jingling bell.

“Halloo,” Stiles called out, but no one answered. He approached the counter, where someone left a handwritten sign that said,  _ Back in 15. Don’t steal anything _ .

“Well isn’t this a quality establishment,” Derek drolled sarcastically. Now that they knew the store was empty, he emerged from Stiles’s collar and perched on his shoulder.

Stiles chose to ignore him and immediately walked toward one of the shelves. He knew what he was looking for anyway.

This was a kitschy store meant to sell souvenirs related to the Gold Rush. There were cheap knockoff tin river pans, stuffed bears like the California flag, old timey candy, and a whole bunch of cheesy Western wear.

But, because this was a souvenir store with a very specific theme, there were also shelves and shelves of little decorative baubles, inside of which, floating in some viscous clear fluid, were sparkling tangles of pure gold. Stiles reached up and took one off the shelf.

“And that’s all we need for the spell?” Derek sounded dubious.

Stiles tossed the bauble lightly and caught it in the palm of his hand. “Yep. Pure gold. Completely legally obtained. And look, it’s on sale.” He sauntered over to the counter, laid down a crisp twenty, and was ready to leave.

Mission accomplished, Stiles was ready to push open the front door, when something he saw out the window had him freeze in his steps. Derek started growling as his claws dug their little kitten tips into Stiles’s shoulder.

Outside, the black SUV was parked next to Stiles’s Jeep. The three leather-clad guys from the station were out, inspecting the Jeep and gesturing toward the store.

Stiles instinctively clicked the lock into place and ducked away from the door, hoping none of the hunters had actually seen him or Derek in the window. He’d really only gotten a glimpse, but it looked like they were definitely packing heat, if the bulges in their jackets were anything to go by.

Stiles quickly crawled across the floor and circled the counter. As soon as he was safely out of sight, Stiles sat down, leaning against the back of the counter, and took several deep breaths, trying to ease the panic causing his heart to feel like it was beating a million times a minute. “It’s okay. It’s just three hunters between us and the car. In the middle of nowhere. We can still get through.”

“Stiles.” Derek climbed out of his hoodie and stood in front of him. His pale gaze had a weird kind of intensity to it. “You need to just get out of here. There’s got to be a back entrance.”

“Whoa, hold on a minute, tinywolf. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Listen to me.” He breathed deeply through his nose. “These are hunters. They’re not here to have a picnic.”

“I  _ know _ that, Derek.”

“And they’re here for me. You can get out and call Scott. Make sure the rest of the pack is safe.” Derek’s expression was pleading, and didn’t that just kick Stiles right in the feelings.

Instead, Stiles hardened his expression. “That’s your plan? How do you even hope to hold them off when you’re not even a foot tall?” Derek opened his mouth to say something, but Stiles barrelled right through. “I know I’m the weak, useless human you never want around, but your odds are infinitely better with me around.” He pointed to his own face. “See this smile? I’m not worried, so it can’t be that serious. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Derek scowled. “That’s not—I never—” He paused, sniffing the air in alarm.

And then all hell broke loose.

A series of shotgun blasts shattered the front windows of the store, sending glass everywhere. Stiles braced himself behind the counter, arms over his head and knees scrunched to his chest, trying to protect his vital body parts.

During a brief break in the gunfire, Derek yelled, “Move!” Even at strength proportional to all eight inches of him, Derek was able to partially drag Stiles forward and toward the back.

Stiles shook the loose pieces of glass from his hair and pushed himself to his feet, barely pausing long enough to scoop Derek into his arms. He made a break for the employee entrance to the back.

He heard the crunch of glass beneath boots, and someone yelled, “Stop! Give us the wolf.”

Stiles ignored them and burst into the back room, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as he slid the deadbolt closed, Derek leaped from his arms and started sniffing for the exit. Even at eight inches tall, he was still pretty fast. “Come on. If we can get outside, I can help you try to lose them in the woods.”

But Stiles was busy pulling the charcoal pencil from his pocket. On the back of the door, he started drawing a wide circle, filling in the center with markings and symbols.

“Stiles, we don’t have time,” Derek said impatiently.

“No, this will give us time,” Stiles insisted, still scribbling furiously. This was the only weapon he had on him. What a time to leave his cool, vampire-slaying metal bat in the car.

On the other side, he could hear the crunching glass get louder until the hunters were just on the other side of the door. The door handle jiggled.

“Come on, kid,” a voice said through the closed door. “No one has to get hurt if you leave the wolf to us.”

“Yeah, do the smart thing,” another voice said.

Stiles was nearly done with his circle, so he decided a little distraction was in order. “See, somehow I have a feeling that if I left you guys alone, someone would indeed get hurt.” Namely Derek, he supposed.

The hunters must have been thinking the same thing, because he heard a couple of muffled chuckles.

“Stiles,” Derek hissed quietly. He tugged sharply on Stiles’s pant leg.

Stiles stumbled and shot him a severe look— _ don’t distract me; I’m nearly there _ —then continued his frantic scribbles. He had to work fast, but he couldn’t lose his concentration, or he ran the risk of it not working at all.

“In fact,” Stiles continued out loud, “why don’t you let us call our pack. Make it a fair fight. Wouldn’t want anyone to call you cowards for cornering a weakened werewolf and a human.”

That stopped them laughing. “Listen here, you punk,” one of them said, “we’re giving you a one-time chance to walk away. We don’t normally go for humans, but nothing’s going to stop us from bagging a born Hale on their own territory.”

Stiles scowled as he finished the last symbol. Hunters were the absolute worst, and it always rankled him whenever he was reminded that Allison and Chris—warm-hearted and upstanding respectively—were the black sheep of the batshit bunch.

“Then you better beat it out of Beacon Hills, because we don’t hold back either.”

He heard one of the hunters let out an angry grumble about breaking the door down. But as he touched the door, the symbols flared orange, and the hum of electricity was immediately followed by a pained yelp from the other side.

Stiles smirked. His circle had worked.

“Neat trick, kid, but this isn’t going to hold us back for long.”

As the sound of gunfire erupted, Stiles briefly flinched back, but the spell still held. Nothing—neither bullets nor battering rams—was going to get through that door while the marks showed.

It was a powerful but temporary spell, though, and already some of the outside marks were starting to fade. The more the hunters threw at the door, the more quickly it would wear out.

“Okay, I think it’s time to move now,” Stiles said, and he and Derek launched themselves toward the other door in the room.

Stiles fumbled for his phone and hit the speed dial. It connected on the first ring.

“Stiles, everything okay?”

“Funny you should ask that, Scotty,” Stiles said lightly. “Please tell me you found the fae.”

Almost in answer, Scott sneezed. “I think I’ve found a trail. But back to you. What do I hear in the background?”

Stiles and Derek burst into a small stock room, and Stiles paused briefly to catch his breath. “That would be gunfire.”

“What?!”

“We ran across Derek’s hunter buddies, and let’s just say they were real fascinated with Derek’s new height.”

Scott let out a noise between a growl and a whimper. “Where are you? I’m coming right now.”

“We’re all the way out at Prospector Bill’s. There’s no time. We’ll lose them. Just keep looking for the fae.”

“Stiles! I’ll—”

“See you in a bit, Scotty.” And Stiles hung up, already wincing at how worried Scott probably was. But they were both kind of busy at the moment.

Derek sniffed the air. “That door to the left leads straight outside, but I think—”

Without thinking, Stiles immediately veered toward that door and threw his weight against the push bar to open it.

“Stiles,” Derek called, but it was too late.

A gloved fist came out of seemingly nowhere and hit a glancing blow against the side of Stiles’s head, causing him to flail backwards and hit his head back against the door. With the one-two punch of the fist then the door, Stiles went down like a sack of potatoes, skidding partway across the floor.

Dammit, he’d only been talking to two of the hunters back by the store. He should have known the third was sneaking around the back.

Stiles lay on the floor, trying to will his body to get up and keep moving. Now was so not the time to take a break.

“Give us the wolf,” the hunter snarled as he advanced on Stiles.

Stiles managed to push himself up into a sitting position before he was knocked back down as the guy tackled him.

Stiles kicked back with all his flailing limbs, wishing once again that he had thought to bring his trusty bat. He grappled with the hunter with everything he had. He knew that if he was even a fraction less slippery than his absolute best, he would be quickly overpowered. He managed to land a few solid punches to the guy’s face, but that only seemed to fuel his anger.

Stiles heard a small wolfish roar before the hunter was knocked off him and sent rolling to the floor. Stiles managed to get enough strength to prop himself up to see the guy clawing at his face, where Derek had latched on with his tiny explosive rage.

Derek pummeled the guy’s face with his tiny fists. At full size and strength, the force would be deadly as he beat his skull into a pulp, and now, even at his smaller stature, his partial werewolf strength was definitely enough to knock this guy down several pegs.

But even Derek couldn’t last long in this state, and it wasn’t long before his tiny body was thrown clear across the room.

Stiles figured it was time to get out of there while the hunter was still reorienting himself and wiping the blood from his scratched up face.

Stiles staggered to his feet, and for a moment the whole world went sideways, but he managed to stay on two legs. He felt along his temple, and his fingers came away bloody. Whoa, he’ll have to get that checked out later.

Fighting through the dizziness, Stiles grabbed up Derek and launched himself back the way they’d come. The back entrance turned out to be a bust, but they were still trapped in a building with three hunters. They had to find a way out.

Stiles ignored Derek’s concerned looks as he ran with him in his arms. He didn’t imagine the cut on his forehead looked very pretty, but that frankly wasn’t Stiles’s main concern at the moment. He’d be fine for now.

When they got back to the door Stiles had spelled, the two hunters were still going at it, trying to break it down. They must have been doing some serious damage, because the circle he’d drawn had nearly disappeared, and only the very center remained.

Stiles didn’t have time to catch his breath if he wanted to catch the hunters by surprise. He only spared a brief look at Derek, who looked alarmed when he kept up his full sprint.

Stiles reached into what reserves of power he could, focused on the quickly disappearing charcoal lines, and pushed. With everything he had.

The lines on the door flared a bright white, which ate up the last of the lines, and the door blasted outward, knocking the two hunters back as it was launched from the door frame entirely. 

Stiles couldn’t help the whoop of triumph that escaped his mouth. He couldn’t believe that actually worked. Now, if they were lucky, he would barrel straight through the store and out the front door.

But hunters are nothing if not well trained, and one of them had already found his footing again.

Stiles caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. The hunter leveled his gun at Stiles.

Stiles attempted to twist his body out of the way at the same time he heard an anguished cry from Derek, but his sneakers slid on the loose glass coating the floor. He had no control.

Derek attempted to grasp at a passing shelf to slow Stiles’s descent, but the move only served to jar them both further, and Stiles landed hard, sliding across the glass-strewn floor before his head smacked against the counter, and he jolted to a sickening stop.

At some point Derek had gone flying from Stiles’s arms, and Stiles lay there, alone and dazed, staring up at the ceiling.

This wasn’t good. He needed to move, to find Derek, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

For some reason, all that went through his head was the stupid thought that he’d landed somewhere near the gold display, and the sunlight was reflecting off the tiny bottles of liquid, casting glittering shapes onto the ceiling. It was kind of beautiful in a way.

Stiles blinked slowly. He could dimly hear Derek yelling something from what sounded like far way, but he found that he couldn’t quite focus on all the words.

Instead, a few phrases drifted to him in brief bursts of clarity.

“He’s human.”

“Only human.”

“—’ll go with you, I swear.”

“—the Preserve.”

“Please!”

Then, slowly, sound and light faded as Stiles lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter left after this. Hope you're enjoying it!


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles couldn’t believe that someone would so rudely interrupt his sleep like this. His head hurt. And them shaking his shoulder made him feel nauseous on top of that.

Someone was saying his name as they shook him, and Stiles lowly groaned in answer.

Slowly he opened his eyes and was mildly confused to see Deaton’s face hovering over his own, his typically placid expression marred by a slightly furrowed brow.

“Didn’t know you cared, Doc,” Stiles finally managed to rasp. “What are you doing here?”

Deaton’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “Glad to see you back with the living, Stiles. Scott called me.”

Deaton carefully helped lift Stiles into a sitting position. He had to pause a few moments to let the dizziness pass, but once it did he saw he was still in the destroyed storefront of Prospector Bill’s.

The place was a mess. Shattered glass and broken debris from knocked-over shelves covered the floor. And the door to the back lay in pieces a good ten feet from its door frame. It was kind of jarring to see a beloved childhood destination destroyed like this.

When Stiles proved that he could sit up on his own, Deaton set a black bag on the floor next to him and silently rummaged through it.

Having a quiet break was nice and all, but Stiles needed answers. “The hunters. What happened to them?”

“Gone, I suspect,” Deaton said matter-of-factly. He reached for one of Stiles’s hands and started picking out pieces of glass from where he’d scraped his palm on the floor. Stiles leaned away from the gruesome task, but Deaton worked as if this happened every day. 

Stiles’s heart lurched. “Derek. Did you see him? Please don’t tell me they—”

“Also gone,” Deaton replied evenly. “Please hold still.”

Stiles tried his best to keep from moving as the vet calmly cleaned his wounds, but he couldn’t swallow the lingering panic that something happened to Derek. His mind buzzed with so many questions. The hunters must have got him. What if they killed him? What if they took him to some torture bunker? How far did they get? Even if they caught up to them, would they be able to rescue Derek?

“I—I have to call Scott,” Stiles declared.

“Okay.” Deaton was as unflappable as ever as he wrapped a bandage over Stiles’s other hand. He tied the whole thing down with a secure knot. “You can call him on the way.”

It sure said a lot when Stiles didn’t even question on the way where. He let Deaton help him to his feet, and as the two exited the destroyed Prospector Bill’s, a man stood there, paused, with his keyes hovering over the smashed-in front door and a horrified expression on his face.

Stiles urged the guy to call the Sheriff’s department—hopefully his dad wouldn’t have a cow over his presence at the scene of what all evidence pointed to was a shooting match—then he and Deaton climbed into his Jeep and sped away.

The first thing Stiles did was call Scott.

“Stiles! Please tell me you’re okay. What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said into the phone, “just a couple of scrapes and bruises. Nothing to worry about.” He decided to ignore Deaton’s side-eye glance from the passenger seat.

“They took Derek. Or Derek led the hunters away. I don’t know, but they’re gone.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Okay, what do we do?” And there’s Scott being Scott through and through. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Stiles could read the worry and concern in his voice, in his short sentences that were straight to the point. And bless him for using “we,” because whatever they do, they do together.

Scott was usually more prone to act, but he had faith in Stiles’s ability to point him in the right direction and let him go.

Now, the only thing was to determine which direction to point Scott.

He took a deep breath. “Stop looking for the fae.”

“But I’ve almost found them—”

“We have to find Derek,” Stiles interrupted. “Listen, I remember Derek telling them something about the Preserve. I think he led them out there. See if you can pick up on their scent, and let us know where to meet you.” If they didn’t rescue Derek soon, it may not matter whether they can get the fae to change him back.

“Okay. I’ll tell you if I find them.”

“Be careful, Scott.”

There was a brief pause on the line. “You better too.” Then Scott hung up.

Stiles gripped the steering wheel with his bandaged hands, ignoring Deaton’s palpable silence next to him.

“We’ll get him back. It’ll be fine,” Stiles said. “He has to be fine.” 

He didn’t know who he was trying to convince more, Deaton or himself. Maybe he was trying to convince the Universe at large, which, let’s face it, has a steady track record for being completely shitty to Derek.

He’ll be fine.

* * *

Stiles was right next to the Preserve when Scott picked up their scent. He was actually closer to them than he thought, and when he cursed and swerved to make a last-minute turn, it only took rounding two curves before they saw the telltale black SUV in front of them. Stiles pumped the accelerator, and his Jeep rocked over the bumpy terrain. He was approaching the hunters fast.

“Stiles,” Deaton said, his usually smooth voice coming out a little clipped with stress, “maybe you should consider the recklessness of your plan.”

“I have considered it, Doc, and it’s entirely reckless.” He pulled the steering hard as they navigated another turn, and the Jeep, not used to being part of a high-speed chase along the forest line, angled dangerously against the curve. Stiles cursed again as he was forced to slow down lest they tip over completely. The SUV surged ahead.

“Maybe you should make sure your seatbelt’s secure,” Stiles advised. It might take some risky driving to keep up with these people, and he prayed that his poor baby would get them through this alive.

Instead, Deaton replied, “Maybe it’s time we went for a different strategy.” Then he took a deep breath through his nose, sharp like a gunshot, and the air was charged with magic.

Startled, Stiles took his foot off the accelerator, and a huge cracking sound echoed through the air.

Stiles was amazed as, right before his very eyes, one of the trees alongside the road lurched and fell, right into the path of the hunters’ SUV. The car skidded right into the fallen trunk and crashed to a stop.

Stiles slammed on the brakes to avoid rear ending them, and then it was stunned silence as he processed what just happened.

“Did you just—”

“I’m sure I have no idea, Mr. Stilinski,” he replied with his usual ability to dodge answers. “Now, I think it’s time to go into action.”

Stiles couldn’t argue with that. In a show of flailing limbs, he managed to peel his seatbelt off and scramble out of the car. This time he made sure to pull his bat out of the back seat. All right, time to show some hunters the reckoning.

Stiles marched out toward the black SUV. At first, it looked like nothing was moving inside. Stiles gripped the handle of his bat, waiting to see if anyone inside was in fighting shape.

Just as Stiles made it to the car, the door closest to him slammed outward, forcing him to dive backwards to avoid being knocked over by the heavy metal.

He lifted his bat to his defense, but the hunter took off running into the forest, closely followed by his buddy clutching a backpack to his chest.

Stiles dived for the car, calling, “Derek!” There was no movement inside; the hunter who had been driving was slumped in his seat, unconscious. “Derek?” Stiles called again. He wasn’t in the car, so that must mean—

“Stiles!” A far-off cry had Stiles whipping his head up to watch the two fleeing hunters. The one holding the backpack was really struggling with it. In fact, the bag seemed to have a life of its own.

Stiles took off running, dodging tree trunks and leaping over roots in pursuit.

The hunters caught on that they were being followed, and the one not holding Derek turned back toward Stiles while reaching for his belt. Stiles was running at full sprint, and his mind was so focused on catching up that he didn’t recognize the gesture until the man had pulled out his gun, and even then his body was on autopilot to keep racing forward.

His mind was occupied with rescuing Derek, and this crazy jerk was the only thing blocking his way. If he gets shot to death by some nameless hunter in the woods, Stiles was so planning to haunt that sourwolf’s ass.

Just as Stiles resolved to keep sprinting to hopefully be a harder target to hit, the hunter got distracted by something just to the left of of Stiles and adjusted his aim. He managed to fire one wild shot before Scott appeared and grabbed the man’s wrist, squeezing until he dropped the gun with a wince of pain.

Stiles briefly met Scott’s glowing red eyes before he surged past the two of them without breaking stride. Scott clearly had that guy covered, so that meant there was only one more hunter to deal with.

The third hunter had slowed quite a bit, so confident that his partner could handle Stiles that he never even looked back. 

Though that might have more to do with how distracted he was by the squirming backpack. Whatever Derek was doing, he was really putting up a fight.

The man had all but ground to a halt as he struggled with the tiny werewolf determined to wiggle that packpack right out of his arms.

“Keep still, mutt, or I’m going to start firing wolfsbane bullets in there like fish in a barrel.” He started angrily beating against the outside of the bag, trying to knock Derek into submission.

But Derek only took that as motivation to double his efforts. His muffled growls turned into dull roars, until he was drowning out the hunter’s cursing and distracting him from Stiles’s fast-approaching footsteps.

At the last second, Stiles yelled, “Hey, asshole!” prompting the guy to look up just as he was tackled to the ground. Stiles put all his high school lacrosse skills into that tackle, and both of them went down hard. Stiles landed on top of the hunter, and judging by the still fresh scratch marks on his face, he was the one he’d grappled with at Prospector Bill’s.

“Punk kid,” the hunter growled out before he rolled the two of them over so that he was on top.

Stiles gasped out as his back hit the hard forest floor. All this rolling around was doing no favors for his head injuries.

The man reached for his belt, and Stiles acted fast. He lashed out at the man’s hand with his bat and it hit home. The hunter cried out in pain, and the gun was knocked away and sent skidding into a pile of leaves.

Stiles tried to lash out with his bat again, but this time the hunter caught it with his good hand before it could smash his face. With a sick leer, he yanked the bat out of Stiles’s hands and threw it over his shoulder.

Stiles kicked and punched as hard as he could, but the hunter was stronger and better trained. He batted away Stiles’s struggles and then latched onto his neck, squeezing hard.

Stiles gasped for breath and tried to pry the hands off his throat, but he couldn’t get any leverage, and he started to choke. Blood was rushing past his ears, and he couldn’t breathe. Oh god, he couldn’t breathe.

The hunter above him grinned, a manic glint in his eye. “Human kids who run with wolves shouldn’t be surprised when they get bitten,” he growled.

Then something small and fast slammed into the hunter, knocking him clear off Stiles and to the ground.

Stiles rolled over to his side and coughed into the wet leaves as he pulled sweet, blessed air back into his lungs.

At first, he thought his rescuer was Derek, but a quick glance revealed Derek still struggling inside the backpack where he’d landed several feet away.

Confused, Stiles looked back to where the hunter wrestled with a tiny something. It was humanoid in shape, maybe eight inches tall, and had a pale green tint to its skin. It was currently clawing at the hunter’s face, but unlike Derek’s use of his kitten-sized claws earlier, this time there was a lot more screaming and blood.

Deciding that both the hunter and creature were indeed occupied, Stiles clawed his way over to the backpack and fumbled with the clasp until he freed Derek from inside.

Derek leaped out of the bag and straight at Stiles, and with worried glowing eyes he catalogued Stiles’s injuries, lingering on his bandaged hands and bruised neck.

“You absolute idiot,” Derek said, breathless. “You could have gotten killed, all just to—”

“All just to save your sorry wolfy butt,” Stiles responded severely. “And despite being the annoying human, that’s exactly what I did. Again, might I add.”

Derek’s mouth snapped closed, and he averted his eyes. “I didn’t want you getting hurt for me.”

Stiles’s eyes bugged out, but before he could start yelling, Scott ran over calling their names.

Stiles let himself be inspected under Scott’s worried ministrations too before batting his hands away with a protest that he would be fine.

In fact, he wasn’t even sure the danger had passed. Derek and Scott were suddenly hit by a series of violent sneezes, and Stiles slapped at Scott’s shoulder until they all turned to face the small greenish creature. 

The hunter lay on the ground completely still, and with his face turned away from them, Stiles had the chilling thought that he couldn’t tell if he was in any fit state to still be alive.

The creature, noticing their attention, turned from where it floated above the hunter and flashed a smile that didn’t reach its eyes. It was almost perfectly proportional to human standards, but its mouth was too large, its teeth too white, and with a small shiver Stiles noted that its teeth were extremely sharp and pointed. He guessed that this must be one of the fae they were chasing down.

“Are you the one who shrunk sourwolf over here?” Stiles spoke out, but when its sharp little gaze landed on him, he kind of regretted speaking up first. The fae’s scrutiny reminded him of what it felt like talking to Peter.

“My apologies,” it said. Its voice was melodic, but there was a sharpness to it that put Stiles a little on edge. “My court was traveling through this territory, and these hunters gave us problems. When your little wolf stumbled too close, we reacted thinking he was one of them.”

“Can you turn him back?”

“Of course. But my, have I been rude. We’ve started talking business without first exchanging the proper pleasantries. I don’t believe you’ve given me your name yet.” The fae’s grin widened. “A human that runs with wolves and smells faintly of magic must be quite interesting. The stories one could tell. I bet I could listen to them  _ forever _ .”

On the surface, its words sounded friendly, but something about that sharp grin, and the way it lingered on the word “forever,” unsettled Stiles.

Scott opened his mouth to reply, when Deaton suddenly came up and placed a warning hand on his shoulder. He gave Scott a meaningful look and shook his head, silently telling them to let him handle this. Then he addressed the fae.

“I believe you’ll find that no one’s name here is to be given away. This wolf pack acknowledges your mistake, and once you reverse what has been done, you may continue your journey unmolested. We will handle the trespassing hunters.”

Stiles hadn’t read Cousin Tammy’s journal cover to cover, but he guessed that thinly veiled threats to “continue their journey unmolested” were probably pretty high on the “do not” list of fae etiquette. 

The fae’s grin melted away into a bored expression, but it didn’t attack them. Instead, it said, “Very well, Druid. We’ll be on our way,” and snapped its fingers.

Scott and Derek devolved into another fit of sneezes, and somewhere between blinks, Derek went from as tiny as the fae to his big ol’ muscly self, lying in the dirt next to Stiles. Scott kneeled nearby, and Deaton stood looking placidly on.

The fae had already disappeared.

* * *

The next day, Stiles was annoyed that he was still confined to bed rest, and he languished on the couch in Miss Pi complaining about it to his dad on the phone.

“It was a concussion, Stiles. You said you were knocked out at one point. And don’t even think we’re not talking about why you felt the need to hide the fact that hunters were stalking you across town.”

Stiles moaned into the speaker. “Yes, yes, lesson learned. But you don’t understand how miserable this is. Even after Scott pushed it to the couch, I can’t reach the top half of my murder board, which cuts into my map of what is decimating all my secret spots for crimson clover. I’m telling you, it’s either a hungry unicorn or Deaton farming for ingredients.” Stiles totally wasn’t bitter that the vet refused to teach him that spell that could level a whole tree at will.

“Stiles,” his dad drew out, and Stiles could picture him rubbing his temples in frustration, “you’re supposed to be resting. Is tracking unicorns rest?”

“Maybe. Depends on your definition.”

“Well I define it as listening to your father and ceasing to work or strain yourself until you’re fully healed. How do you define rest?”

“The remaining part of something that you return to?”

“Stiles—”

“Sorry, Dad. Gotta go,” Stiles said when he heard the front door opening. “Scott’s just got home and it’s his turn to be obnoxiously overprotective.” Then he hung up.

Scott shuffled inside holding a large cardboard box. He raised one eyebrow at Stiles but didn’t comment on his conversation with his dad.

“Whatcha got there, Scotty.”

“I think Derek left these on our doorstep,” he said as he set the box on the coffee table.

Stiles made grabby hands and reached for the envelope taped to the top. It had his name on it, and yep, that was definitely Derek’s handwriting.

Inside was a short note:

_ You’re human, yes, fragile and breakable. But you’re not some unwanted Santa waiting to be thrown out with a frozen jolly expression as the inevitable takes place. _

_ You’re Stiles, and you’re important. _

Stiles couldn’t help the grin that split his face. He couldn’t believe it. This was so unlike the famous grump. He couldn’t imagine how soul crushing it must have been for him to write something nice. At least, nice by sourwolf standards.

Scott pried open the lid and then let out a high-pitched sneeze. Inside were several of the handwritten journals from the Hale vault.

Stiles excitedly went through the books, and it was a real treasure trove of supernatural knowledge. It wasn’t just Cousin Tammy’s volumes on the fae. There were also books on werewolf culture and tomes on creatures that focused on how they survived and interacted, not just how to kill them like in the Argent bestiary. And there were even a few volumes on magic spells and runes, each accompanied by a bright orange sticky note with severe warnings about talking to Deaton before trying anything out.

Stiles let out a joyous laugh. Reading these was going to occupy him for months. He sure hoped Derek understood that his transcription and archiving services—he was already reminding himself to add that to the MSPI website—to digitize these journals wouldn’t come free.

Derek, that big ol’ softy. And so the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes that day.

And his street cred would never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this story. Hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> The next story in the series doesn't have a set title yet, but it's something along the lines of "The Case of the Scaredy Wolf," and it will feature something a little more spooky. Oooooooh~


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